


Reasons

by weatherby



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-09
Updated: 2009-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:07:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatherby/pseuds/weatherby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel is alive, which is, you know, pretty cool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reasons

Angel is still picking pieces out of his hair when he gets to the Reillys' an hour before dawn. A black poodle is following him, but he doesn't pay it any mind and eventually it stops to gobble the finger Angel has shaken out of his jacket.

Connor is sitting on the porch.

Angel approaches him silently, but the dripping gives him away. Connor looks shocked--whether at the way Angel looks or simply the fact that Angel is there at all, Angel doesn't know--but he quickly recovers. He raises his hand and wiggles his fingers lightly.

"You have a porch," Angel says.

"Yep," Connor says, looking at him strangely. "It came with the house. Sort of a free gift with purchase. You've got some --" he gestures at his own head, like someone pointing out that your hair is out of place. Angel pulls a long clump of blue hair from his head and Connor inhales sharply. "Is that -- what is that?"

"Illyria," Angel says. He glances at the chunk of scalp before he throws it aside.

Connor's face is like a television monitor displaying his reactions. It's conflicted, briefly, between Connor from Quor-Toth and Connor Reilly and he seems to react as both, somehow shocked and unfazed at the same time. "That's -- well, that's kind of gross. You're alive, though. That's cool."

"Yeah." Angel smiles a little. "Cool."

Connor is unrelenting in his unfortunate habit of maintaining eye contact. He is still wearing the same clothes from the night before, plaster and bits of wall staining his jacket grey in places. It's a horrible jacket. Brown, shorter than his shirt. Angel wanders into a vague fantasy in which Connor dresses exactly like him. He should have taken him shopping once, or at least got Cordelia to do it.

"That's a lot of blood," Connor says, nodding at the pool coming from Angel's sleeve.

"Oh. That." Angel pushes his jacket down his arm and winces. "Just a little dragon bite. Nothing to worry about, though."

Connor stares at the hole where half of Angel's upper arm used to be. He looks grossed out but says, "So what, do you like, take your jacket off when you fight dragons? So you don't damage the leather? I mean, that thing's in pretty good condition, except for the blood. No bites out of that. Are you like, 'I will slay you, good sir, but not in my good jacket'?"

"Of course not," Angel says. He pulls the sleeve back up to his shoulder. "This is Spike's. Mine's burned up."

"That explains the shortness." Connor stares at him some more. In the driveway next door, a man comes out in his bathrobe to take out the trash. He looks at Angel and Connor and cries out in terror. They don't look at him.

"I just came --"

"I don't want to live with you," Connor says flatly, and finally looks away.

"What?"

"I don't want to go away with you, or whatever." Connor pauses. "That sounded more child molesty than I meant."

"Yeah, I'd rephrase that."

"I don't want to leave them. The Reillys. My family. Thing. I don't want to go fight with you. The good fight, protecting the city. I don't want to do it. I mean, it's a good thing and all. Don't get me wrong. But I don't want to go be --" he looks for the word he wants and, finding none, sighs.

"My son?" Angel says quietly.

Connor looks at him again. He doesn't have to say anything, but he does. "Yeah. That."

Angel nods.

"I just mean what goes with it," Connor says quickly. "I want to go back to college. And vote. And --"

"I didn't come here to pick you up," Angel says.

"Oh." Connor blinks. "You're not going to argue and try to convince me? No brooding?"

"Wasn't really planning on it, no."

"Then what?"

"I came to say goodbye." He waits for Connor's reaction, but none comes. "The Senior Partners left me alive for a reason, Connor. They could have killed me. They know it, and I know it. I shouldn't have lived through that battle. And right now, I'm not thinking it was because I'm such a swell guy."

Connor takes this in; looks at the coat, the last of Illyria lying in his front yard.

"And I'll be damned if I'm sticking around you while I wait to find out what that reason is."

They stare at each other, and it occurs to Angel that this is the first time he's felt like the adult in this relationship since Connor came back into his life.

"You should get inside somewhere," Connor says. "The sun will be up soon."

Angel doesn't move. "I need you to keep yourself safe. Just you. The city can wait. The Senior Partners know who you are. If something happens to me, I won't be here to --"

"Dad!"

The word hangs there like a broken window. Connor balls his fist in his hand and shifts his gaze to the side. Angel stares helplessly, somehow embarrassed. The split second feels like an hour.

"I get it," Connor continues, quietly. "Destiny, stuff like that. It's cool."

"Cool," Angel repeats. He wants to ask Connor to say it again. "So. You know. Going now."

"Okay."

Angel shifts his weight awkwardly. Connor is staring up at him blankly.

"I'll be careful," he says, finally. "All right?"

"It's cool," Angel says nonchalantly.

Connor smirks. "Right."

Angel lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers before he crosses the yard, realising only once he's done it that this is probably rude. He wonders how Connor will explain the blood stains on their sidewalk. He turns back to say something, but Connor is already headed back inside. He is dragging a long and obviously packed duffel bag behind him, and Angel is suddenly glad that he never wondered why Connor was waiting on the porch.


End file.
